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Lo copped these jazzy boho-funk sides from an old-timer named Rustler, who’d spent 20 years amassing the most inventively seductive instrumental soul his dollars could snag. Now, they’re throwing an hour-plus player’s ball with ‘em, and you’d be a stupid motherfucker to miss it. You’d be better off checking into a beachfront hotel under your birth-certificate, square world name.

Ladies and gentleman. Kids of all ages. You’ve all been invited to the seashore this afternoon because, according to the streets, you have some claim to the funk. So you should have no trouble making your bad selves at home. My name is Diamond Cutta. So hard, the cat couldn’t scratch it. I’ll be your host this evening.

For your comfort and sensual pleasure, we offer sassy brass ready to blow back the West Coast tide, if it approaches the umbrellas that keep the ladies’ sweet, juicy skin safe from the snarling, intrusive, revealing rays that shoot forth from the guitar amps, meeting the sunlight where the breakers turn to swells, halfway to the horizon. We don’t want to make you unconfortable, gumdrop. We just want to see that body shine. The jaunty spy themes will fade away as the sun descends, making way for organs that swell like the full moon, filled nearly to bursting with that sweet liquid cheese. Fine entertainers like The Mello Decisions, The Basic Sounds Of Pittsburg, The Four Of Clubs, The Black On White Affair and my personal friends in The Soul Smoochers will keep the party going while my right hand man replenishes the bubbly supply.

You’ll notice that the muffled rumble of the bass and the hissing snap of the drums (not since “My Generation” has this sort of cymbal action been socially acceptable: Jive-ass suckers mistook it for surface noise) remain more or less consistent throughout the proceedings. That is, some of you will notice. That fine young fox in the baby-blue mini strikes me as 100% gone: HYPNOTIZED. But she can hear the sound of my voice.

My, my. You’re shakin’ it like a pair of dice this eveing. You’re swept up by the backbeat, but I can slow my brain down at will to survey the scene in the slowest of motion. I see that fleshy, milky leg straighten out to 180 degrees on the one. I see that soft knee bend and that flexed calf caress that smooth, quivering thigh on the two. On the three, your waist-length, Manson groupie black hair tickles those navy blue toenails. You’re a slave to that rhythm supreme. Sweat trickles into your bountiful cleavage, but you’ve never felt so much at ease.

My man arrives with some more of the good stuff, and the party continues.